


New neighbour, new start

by BromeliadLucy



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Agoraphobia, Art, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mild Smut, Music, Panic Attacks, Past Domestic Violence, Self-Harm, Social Anxiety, god knows i don't, past trauma, who knows what else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-18 16:20:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7322203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BromeliadLucy/pseuds/BromeliadLucy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone new moves in across the hall from your apartment.  A misdelivered parcel is a vitally important plot point :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know nothing about music so apologies if I've suggested a wrong instrument or used any wrong words. I can hum, but that's about it. And not in tune.
> 
> I do know panic attacks and anxiety though. Woo! Go me! :/

It was the sound of music playing that told you your new neighbour had moved in. You’d seen boxes and furniture being delivered a week ago but then silence. Today there’d been the unmistakeable scraping of couches and chairs being moved into position, boxes being dropped, pizza being delivered, and a pile of garbage bags building up outside the door. You’d stayed silent all day, afraid that someone might knock on your door, but perhaps they assumed the apartment was empty, or you were out at work, and no knock came.

The music stopped and started - not a CD then - the notes drifting across the hallway. Phrases were repeated, notes added and replayed. You didn't know much about music but it sounded as if someone was composing. It was a deep, breathy sound - clarinet? oboe? - and perfectly suited the balmy evening as the sun went down. You put down your pen and sat, eyes closed, letting the notes wash over you. 

The thought of a new neighbour had scared you for a while. You'd been so used to Mrs Campbell. You were both quiet and appreciated that in each other. You’d helped her clean, cooked for her sometimes, and sat and kept her company for many hours, happily. In return, she'd pick up groceries for you when her son took her out shopping. But the apartment got harder for her to manage, and she started to get forgetful. When she fell and broke her hip getting out of bed, you knew she wouldn’t be back. Her son took her straight from hospital to live with him, something you knew both delighted and frustrated Mrs Campbell, and the apartment was left empty. She wrote to you a few times, but it was lonely with her gone. 

Both apartments opened off a central lobby, with stairs to the next storey rising between them, and a door to the street in front. There was a family living upstairs, taking up the whole top floor. The parents were out at work during the week, and they often seemed to be out and about at weekends. You didn’t know them well, although you’d babysat once or twice for their toddler daughter, and you’d catch up if they saw you on their way in and out. You always took in parcels for them though, they knew that you were always in and it was no trouble to hold on to things for them. You’d done the same for Mrs Campbell as well, not that she got out as much. It made you feel useful, and as if staying inside was a choice, or a good idea.

You’d kept silent as much as possible for days, living slightly on edge when you shut a cupboard door too hard or ran the shower, but you soon came to believe that your new neighbour obviously wasn’t the friendly sort and wasn’t about to knock, so began to relax again. Occasionally you’d hear the apartment door and front door open and close, a car start up outside, and on one evening, voices across the hall – not that you were listening, but the sound carried. Mostly for the first week though, all was quiet except for the snatches of music that continued to drift over. You started to recognise excerpts as they were played and replayed, and they were gradually forming into a coherent melody. You found yourself humming along with the music, even when it wasn’t playing, enjoying the free entertainment and finding the tune captivating. Eventually, it seemed the piece was finished, it was played through from start to finish a few times without stopping, all the separate elements had come together at last and you had to stop what you were doing and listen. When the final note died away, you felt like applauding, it had been beautiful.

Shortly after that, there was more noise from the other apartment. The door opened and someone came out, whistling the same tune loudly and then you heard the car outside start up. You carried on working, humming the tune yourself and smiling slightly. An hour or so later, the door buzzer went and you heard the mailman’s voice. Bracing yourself, you buzzed him in and went into the lobby to meet him. You knew the mailman well by now, he knew he could safely leave parcels for you, and so you took the package he handed you, signed for it, chatted briefly and then turned to go back into your apartment.

“For the new guy in apartment 1, that is,” he said, as he left. You hadn’t looked at the address, assuming, for no real reason, that it would be for the family upstairs – they often bought books and toys online. You looked at the address, then back up, wanting to tell the mailman you couldn’t take it in, but the door was already swinging shut behind him.

Taking the package inside, you put it down carefully on the table, treating it almost as if it was a bomb. You checked the name – J. B. Barnes – and then sat down in a chair and stared at it, as if almost willing it out of existence. You’d foolishly kidded yourself that you could go through life and never meet your new neighbour and now it seemed that wasn’t going to work. You knew you’d been lucky in getting this apartment – with only two neighbours it was quiet, plus the rent wasn’t bad – but if you’d had a choice you’d be living completely alone. Now you were going to have to hand over the parcel, and there might be conversation.

You spent the rest of the day unsettled, trying to work but feeling the package like a malevolent presence in the room. You hadn’t heard your new neighbour – J. B. Barnes, apparently – returning so it sat there, ominously waiting. When you heard the front door bang, and the rustling sound of bags being shifted and keys dropped, and tunes whistled, you knew you had to face this.

It was an hour later before you managed to get across the lobby. In that time, you’d stood, just inside your own door, holding the parcel and mentally rehearsing how the conversation could go. ‘Hi, I live in apartment 2, here’s a parcel’?, ‘the mailman left this for you, I live across the hall’?, ‘hello, I’m your neighbour, I have a parcel for you’? It shouldn’t be that hard, but it was. You finally felt prepared enough and opened the door, muttering ‘I live across the hall… I live across the hall…’ under your breath and feeling your face start to prickle with the anxiety, and your hands to sweat. As you lifted your hand to knock, you could smell something cooking from inside the apartment. It smelt good, although your stomach was churning so you couldn’t properly appreciate it. The tune you’d heard so much was also being whistled from inside, with the person occasionally breaking out into wordless singing along.

One deep breath, two sharp knocks, ‘I live across the hall… I live across the hall…’, parcel held forward to signal your reason for being here. The whistling broke off, you heard the latch turn, and the door opened. The man standing there had short dark hair, swept back from his face, bright blue eyes, and a mouth that curved up at the ends. He smiled at you, his face looking as if it was always ready to smile, and said ‘hi’. You could feel yourself blushing and your skin tingling all over with anxiety, so thrust the parcel forwards slightly.

‘I live across the hall”, you managed, your voice a little shaky and unfamiliar from disuse, “the mailman gave me this for you”. You pushed it forwards a little more and the man took it, peering at the return address.

“Ah great, I’ve been waiting for this!” He said, looking up again with an even bigger smile. “I’m Bucky, I’ve been meaning to come over and say hi, but I’ve been working on a piece and I had to get it finished, I knew if I took too much of a break I’d lose the thread, plus I was already over the deadline! But it’s done now, so hello!” He spoke fast, and you were secretly envious of the easy way he chatted. He looked at you expectantly and you knew it was your turn to speak – why did conversations never follow the plans in your head? You knew you were scarlet by now and wanted to run but you had to try and finish the conversation first. 

“Hi, I, um, I live across the hall”. You inwardly groaned as you realised that you’d not only already said that, but you’d also gestured vaguely behind you as if he might have not been able to work out from ‘across the hall’ that you meant the only other door there, and which was standing open. You ground to a stop.

“Good to meet you” he grinned again. “These are great apartments aren’t they. Hey, I hope my music doesn’t disturb you?”

“No, no, it was nice. I liked it. It’s fine. Thank you.” Ok, maybe that was excess reassurance. How did this conversation thing work?! “Ok, um, bye” you said, and then scuttled back across to your door, closing it firmly behind you and finally breathing. Suspecting you’d regret it, you then peered through the spyglass on the door and saw Bucky still standing there, a slightly puzzled look on his face, then shutting his own door as he went back inside. You turned, letting your back rest against the door, and slowly slid down until you were sitting on the floor, forehead resting on knees, breathing your way through the panic.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some drawing, some pen throwing, some music, some grocery shopping.
> 
> It is ALL action here, all the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know much about illustration (do artists respond to commissions?) or music (as I said before). I don't even know if there are foxes in America.
> 
> I do know about being miserable and anxious, so we're good on that score.
> 
> This is the slowest story ever, so far a grand total of nothing has happened. Sorry.

You kept your door firmly shut and your curtains closed for days after that, you always needed to after a panic had set in. You needed to work, you had obligations, so you tried to focus on that but your heart would lurch every once in a while as you realised that you were living this trapped and lonely life, and you’d have to stop.

You were an illustrator, mostly working on children’s books these days. It wasn’t necessarily what you’d set out to do when you left art college but with your mental health the way it was these days, since…the incident, it was a living. And you did enjoy it, creating crazily detailed worlds full of suited animals or aliens or happy families. Sometimes you drew yourself into your work, perhaps sitting in a café window watching the aliens pass by, or in a circus audience. You didn’t get out enough to have many references so the same faces often cropped up. Right now though, you were supposed to be working on a bid for a fantastic commission. It was for a young adult book, much darker than you were used to, and almost entirely illustrated, a chance to do some different work, reach a new audience. You’d been working on a response to the brief for a while now and needed to get it finished but nothing seemed to be working today. Every drawing came out wrong and you ended up throwing your pen across the room in a fit of temper. You rested your elbows on the desk and rubbed your eyes with the heel of your hands, so angry with yourself for all the things you couldn’t do. You were tense and unhappy and had no outlet.

You sighed, and went to pick up the pen from by the door – the problem with tantrums as an adult was there was no one to clear up after you. As you got near the door, you could hear music again coming from the other apartment. It was beautifully clear and you stood for a moment, shoulders leaning back against the wall, eyes closed, to listen. It was quieter than the last piece and harder to hear, so you opened your front door slightly and sat down on the floor nearby, letting the music soothe you. You felt your shoulders relax and let your head fall back against the wall, wincing as tight muscles complained. You were still feeling shaken by your experience of talking to someone new. For so long you’d spoken to the same people – Mrs Campbell, her son, the upstairs family, the mailman, the man who delivered groceries, and occasionally your agent – you couldn’t remember when you’d last tried to speak to someone new and it scared you how hard you’d found it. Logically, you knew that the less often you did something, the harder it got, but you’d grown so used to your enclosed world that to be faced with the reality of the walls you’d made was desperately sad. You’d always shut out thoughts of your loneliness but sometimes they confronted you.

The music came to a close and you opened your eyes, feeling more peaceful than you had done in days. Afraid of being caught listening, you carefully closed the door, and then went to shower, letting the hot water continue kneading the knots out of your muscles. Clean, dressed, and with a mug of tea and sandwich, you sat back down and looked at the work you’d done for the commission so far. With a clearer head, you could see what was wrong with it, and sweeping aside the last week’s work, you picked up a new piece of paper and started afresh. The illustration flew from your pen, different in style to the cramped and dark pieces you’d managed over the last few days. This was lighter – the subject matter was dark but this was a chance for beauty to come through too. You only had a few days now to finish so maybe starting afresh was risky but you had to do what felt right.

You worked long into the night, tea and sandwich abandoned beside you, unaware of time until you finished your first piece and sat back. Muscles complained after hunching over for so long so you did some stretching, contemplating your art as you did so. This was… good. You were actually pleased with it. You’d captured some of that peace that you felt listening to the music and it worked. You still needed to do two more illustrations to send in, but at least you now knew the style you wanted to offer. If it wasn’t right for the book, so be it. Glancing at your watch, you realised it was 2am and it suddenly hit you that you were hungry, thirsty and tired. Taking your cup and plate back to the kitchen, you opened the fridge and noticed how little food you had in. You normally placed a grocery order once a week and had it delivered but the tension of the past few days had put it out of your mind.

Once in a while, you forced yourself to go out to the store instead of getting someone to bring it to you. With your new sense of peace, as well as the residue of loneliness you were trying to hide, you decided to try it tonight. You preferred shopping at night, fewer people around, cover of darkness, although the dark also made you twitchy and you’d walk, keys clutched between your fingers, skirting around alleyway entrances, jumping at noises.

You strapped on a rucksack, grabbed keys and money, then breathed deeply and fast for a few minutes, psyching yourself up to go. Quickly, so you couldn’t back out, you opened your front door, walked across the lobby, out of the main door, and were outside. Your heart was beating wildly and your breath seemed loud, but you needed to prove to yourself that you could do this every once in a while. It was cool out, but fresh and you enjoyed the air after days shut away. Eyes down, shoulders hunched, you tried to walk at a normal pace towards the store, just a block away. There were few people out at this time of night, an occasional car and once a fox ran across in front of you, but you made it to the store and walked in, blinking in the bright strip lights.

You didn’t have much of an appetite most of the time. Constant anxiety plus depression made eating seem an effort, but you were so afraid of getting ill and needing a doctor that you ate pretty healthily. You grabbed up fruit and vegetables, bread, pasta, some fish, and some other essentials, and headed for the checkout. Another advantage of late night/early morning shopping was that the assistants seemed as unwilling to engage in conversation as you did, so you paid in silence and loaded it all into your rucksack before heading back into the dark.

As you approached your apartment building, you could hear voices – no, just one voice – talking fairly loudly in the still night. You slowed your walk, desperate to get back inside but afraid of whoever was there. Rounding the corner, you saw it was your new neighbour, standing out in front of the building talking on a cell phone. He sounded frustrated, and slightly drunk.  
You weren’t sure of the etiquette here. Try and slip past, pretending you hadn’t seen him or heard his conversation? A sympathetic smile? While you were still considering it, and slowly walking up the drive, he finished his call, grunting with frustration as he put the phone in his pocket and then looked up.

“Hey, apartment 2 right? Sorry, just venting, hope you didn’t hear too much of that?” as before, he seemed to talk fast and unbroken, a skill you envied. “What are you doing out so late? Been somewhere fun?” You shook your head.

“Just shopping. Food” you managed, and started to walk past to open the door. Then something in you, some gratitude for the peace his music had brought, which had allowed you to start your artwork, to brave the world, made you turn and speak again.

“Your playing today, it was beautiful” you said, and were glad of the dark, covering the flush that had come to your cheeks with the effort of conversing.

“You liked it?” he seemed pleased. “Wow, thanks. I needed that. That phone call, I’m working on a piece for someone in Scotland, they keep changing what they want – and then ringing me in the middle of the night to discuss it, ignoring the time difference. What I played today, that was all me, I hate trying to fit what someone else wants sometimes.”

“It was… peaceful. Calm” you said, wishing you could be as voluble as he managed, but he didn’t seem to notice, smiling and looking pleased with your choice of words. You smiled, ducking your head and started for the door again.

“G’night, apartment 2” he grinned. “You going to tell me your name at all, now you’re my favourite music critic?” You smiled again, caught up in his pleasure, and told him his name, then continued inside to safety.

Back in your four walls, you put away the shopping and then, eating an apple, stopped to look at the previous day’s work. Yes, you were pleased with it. This was what you wanted to send them. Your fingers itched to continue drawing but you knew you needed to rest. 

Lying back in your bed a little while later, you sighed with a sense of contentment that had been missing for a long while. The music had helped you relax, a walk in the air, and then managing what was, to you, one of the most personal conversations you’d had since Mrs Campbell left, you felt calm. You knew what you wanted to draw tomorrow too.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hate writing chapter summaries because it shows me that I've written a chapter where nothing happens.
> 
> So: nothing much happens. Some drawing, some music. Coffee is drunk. Bananas are eaten.
> 
> I tell you, this is a non-stop thrill ride, this fiction. HOLD ON TO YOUR HATS PEOPLE.

You woke late the next morning after your late night, but without the usual knot in your stomach, and eager to continue drawing. You skipped the usual run on the treadmill – your substitute for any other activity – and skipped the shower, wanting to get on while your fingers knew what they wanted to draw. You grabbed a banana and some coffee before you started but within ten minutes of getting up, you were sitting at your drawing board, still in your pyjamas.

You started sketching, the only sound the gentle whisper of the pencil on paper, and the occasional clink as you put down your coffee cup. You were so focussed on your drawing that it took a while for the music to seep into your consciousness but as you looked around for your favourite pen, you realised you’d been hearing it for a while. It was the same tune as yesterday, the one that had given you such peace before, and you smiled to yourself to hear it again. Your drawing board was at the very back of your room, nearest the window, so it was a strain to hear the music. You walked across to the door, planning to listen for a moment, but also wanting to draw, and so decided to prop your door open. You were usually so security conscious, keeping the door firmly locked and bolted, despite the secure main door and the fact you knew the other people in the building, but you needed the safety of locked doors. Today though, you felt calmer than you had done for a while, buoyed up by the pleasure in your drawing, in having faced the outside, in having spoken to another person. So you grabbed a couple of books from the shelves to hold the door open, and went back to draw.

The tune was played over a few times – there may have been slight alterations but your ear wasn’t good enough to pick them out. You did start to recognise repeated themes and melodies though, and hummed along while you worked. The sun was shining through the window onto you and you felt warm and content. When the music stopped, you quietly went over and shut your door, but the feeling remained.

Around three in the afternoon you decided you should take a break. You changed and ran on your treadmill for a while, stretching out muscles that had been cramped over the desk all day, then showered and dressed and made yourself some food. You’d deliberately turned your half-finished drawing over before you left the desk – you always did – so that you could see it with fresh eyes after a break. An hour or so after first standing up, you went back to the desk and turned your art over. Leaning on the chair back, you looked at it closely. Yes, you still liked what you saw. It wasn’t finished but as a first sketch to work up, it was perfect. It showed your interpretation of one of the items in the brief, a depiction of a man waiting at a train station in the rain. Dark shadows loomed overhead and a train could be seen in the distance, but the man stood alone on the platform, dripping wet and looking forlorn. You had to admit, it was looking good. And you had to admit to yourself too, that the man you’d drawn wasn’t a million miles from looking like your new neighbour.

You sat back down and started inking the pencil sketch carefully. This was so much better than the previous attempts had been. It was a loser, lighter style than you usually did but you were feeling proud of what you’d achieved. As the light dimmed, you were eventually forced to stop, but were pleased with what you’d achieved. It would still be tight to get everything finished by the deadline, but you felt sure you could do it. You turned the picture over again, and left it for the day.

You made yourself some dinner and grabbed the book you were reading, taking book and food to your small dining table. Sitting and reading, you felt relaxed and happy, today had been a good day.

The next day was good too. You woke up at your normal time after getting to bed earlier, worked out, showered, had breakfast and were back at your desk in the morning sun by just after 9. You didn’t mind putting in the hours to get this done, you’d always loved drawing and the way you felt when everything fell into place. You turned the drawing over, and felt yourself smile, you still liked it. You decided to keep this one in just pen and ink, as it seemed to match the foreboding brief you’d been given so set it aside for a while to think about while you started on the final sketch. Time seemed to fly by, and you paused around 2 for lunch, rolling your aching shoulders as you headed for the kitchen. You ate standing up, just wanting to get back to work, and gulped down a couple of glasses of water, then as you cleaned up, noticed the music again. This was a different piece, lively and fast, and matched your mood. Once again, you propped open your door and went back to work. The piece you were working on now was a happier one, a sketch showing a forest full of exotic birds and a mud-splattered child in the centre. This one you planned to sketch today, ink and colour tomorrow and the next day, ready for posting. The music matched the piece well, the flocks of birds flew out of your pencil in time to the melody and the laughing child seemed to dance along. By the time the music stopped, you were ready to rest and shut your door again, pleased with your day.

When you woke up the following day, you were already hoping that you’d hear next door’s music again. Putting on your own music wouldn’t feel the same as knowing someone was playing just across the hall. By the time you were out of your shower, you could hear the music so you grabbed yourself some coffee, propped the door with some books, and sat down ready to colour.

You worked on through lunch, oblivious to hunger pangs, so intent on your work, and by 5pm, you decided you’d done enough. You lifted up the drawing, to see it from arm’s length, and were pleased with what you’d achieved. Three new drawings done in just a few days, ready to send out in response to the brief. You didn’t dare imagine actually getting the commission, but even so, you were pleased you’d be able to demonstrate what you could do beyond children’s picture books. As always, the picture went upside down until the next day, and you went into the kitchen to cook.

You made yourself a quick pasta salad, and decided to celebrate completing your work with some wine, so took salad, bottle, and glass to the table, then grabbed your book again and settled down. The book was engrossing and you sat there long after you’d finished the salad, absentmindedly refilling your glass so that you’d had a little more than you intended. It was lucky that you were slightly alcoholically relaxed as there was a knock at your door and a voice called out.

“Hello? Is everything OK? It’s Bucky from across the hall, your door was open….”

Damn it, you’d forgotten to move the books when you stopped drawing. You were briefly surprised at yourself, relaxing enough to forget to lock a door, but the surprise was quickly overtaken by panic as Bucky’s head poked around the small hallway and caught your eye.

“Hey, sorry for walking in, just wanted to check you were OK?” You saw him quickly glancing around your apartment, obviously trying to see as much as he could without openly staring.

“I’m sorry, I, yes, I’m OK” you stumbled over your words, a mixture of unfamiliarity with speaking, anxiety at his presence and the wine. It had been a long time since anyone was in your apartment. “I was…I mean, I hope you don’t mind, I propped it open to, well, hear you play.” You flushed scarlet, feeling as if you’d been caught spying on him, but his face lit up.

“Woah, that’s great, why would I mind?! Music is there to be heard. You should come over some time, drop in and I’ll play you what I’m working on…” Perhaps he saw the panic in your face, as your face lost its blush and went pale. 

“I, thanks, I, it’s, thank you”. You weren’t making any sense. Your hand was grasping, white-knuckled, onto the edge of the table behind you and you could feel tears pricking your eyes. This man was a nice man, he had shown concern that your door was open, he was only being friendly, but the usual fear of being hurt was too strong to overcome. You hated that you couldn’t smilingly accept his offer, make conversation. Make a friend. But years of anxiety and shutting yourself away had made that seem impossible. Bucky wasn’t stupid, he’d picked up on your nerves the first time you’d tried to speak to him with the parcel, and he instantly backed off.

“Maybe some other time, no pressure, but if you want to keep your door open, go ahead! Tell you what, I’ll open mine too, so you can hear better when I’m playing? That way you can keep yours closed if you need some space, or you can open yours to hear, while we’re both in our own apartments?”

He was doing that thing again, talking fast and non-stop. You liked it. And you liked his consideration, offering you a way to keep your door shut but still hear his music. It was such a change to hear a voice inside your apartment, one that chatted away so freely. Even when you talked to yourself (which you did more often than you’d like to admit), you often stumbled. You gave him a half smile, touched at his gesture but embarrassed by your failings and he grinned back.

“OK, well glad everything’s good, I’m going out so see you around? Good book by the way” he gestured at the book you’d been reading, still sitting on the dining table, then waved a hand in the air, and turned to leave.

“Thank you. Bucky. For checking. And the music.” You got a sentence out without an um or a pause, and he turned and gave you another grin.

“No problem, see y’around” and he was gone.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something ACTUALLY HAPPENS!
> 
> There is actual (mild, not very exciting) drama. There is a HUG. There is WATER DAMAGE.
> 
> I am going to be sued for the emotional trauma, I swear.

You waited until Bucky left the building before shutting your door, then went through your usual night time ritual of locking up, a little sheepishly tonight as you’d left the door open for so long. You felt unsettled and slightly unnerved but it was different to the usual anxiety. You were pleased by your work, you were slightly tipsy, but it wasn’t that. It was Bucky. The smell of his aftershave had lingered for a moment or two after he’d left and the sound of his voice and the sight of his smile were still in your head. For anyone who went a long time without any human interaction, it was slightly overwhelming. And, you had to admit, he was good looking.

You flopped down on the couch and turned on Netflix, looking for something to pass the rest of the evening. Half way through the film you realised you had no clue what was happening, your mind wouldn’t settle and your thoughts kept drifting back to Bucky and how kind he’d been. It was a long time since anyone had been kind. A part of your mind started weaving stories about how you’d be friends and you’d go out to the movies and to coffee shops and eat together, but you soon shut that down. You didn’t have friends. You couldn’t leave the apartment. He was just a nice man who was being kind to the weirdo across the Hall. You felt angry with yourself again, the calm of the day overwritten by the self-hatred, fuelled by the wine and your ridiculous attraction to your neighbour. Irritated, you shut off the TV and went to go to bed. It was a long time before you slept, while your thoughts raced.

The next morning you woke with a slight wine-headache and a sense of vague annoyance at the world. You ran harder than normal on the treadmill, determined to wear yourself out, then showered and ate before turning to your desk and lining up your drawings. Despite your sour mood, you were pleased with these. You had enough ability to look at your own work objectively and these were good. Feeling more cheerful, you turned on the laptop to print out your résumé, and a letter to the agent, and then to scan in the pictures for your records.

Once everything was done, you packed up the pictures and addressed them, then faced the feeling that had been at the back of your mind all morning. The feeling that had probably prompted the self-hatred last night and the foul mood when you woke up. You were going to have to go out, in the day time, to the post office. You had to do it every once in a while, to post off artwork, or to meet your agent, but it scared you. You’d built up so many walls, literal and metaphorical, over the years that when you had to go beyond them – interact with people, make yourself vulnerable – it hurt. It hurt because it terrified you, and it hurt because you felt so low afterwards.

You reminded yourself that your drawings were good. That you wanted this commission – and needed it, financially. That people went outside every day, that it was going to be OK. All the tips the therapists had given you were one thing, but your body was in fight-or-flight mode and was telling you another.

You had to do it though. You grabbed up the package and put it in your bag, checked purse, keys. Cap on to keep you hidden from the world, jacket so you could shove your hands in the pockets to hide the trembling. One therapist had suggested listening to music over earphones but you needed to be able to hear if anyone came close, so you didn’t try it.

You stood by the door, hand on the lock, taking deep breaths then opened it with a bang and were out. Outside the sun was shining and it was warm on your back as you walked, head down and at a fast pace. The post office was about 3 miles away, enough of a walk to stretch your muscles, not so far that you couldn’t get home quickly enough. You knew the way well, so kept your head down, watching for people’s legs and feet as a way to avoid bumping into anyone. Shoulders hunched and hands in pockets to avoid accidental contact. Once you got to the post office, you waited in line for ten minutes, sweating and nervous, before you reached the counter. Handing it over and paying, you breathed out with relief that it was done. 

The walk back was always easier, knowing you were heading back to safety. You still kept your head down but your mind wandered now, as it always did, to catching snatches of conversation as you passed. This always left you feeling low, noticing the minutiae of people’s lives, the easy way people talked to friends, held hands with children, walked along, heads held high and part of life. You’d wanted that for a long time, but you’d never managed it. Your eyes stung with unshed tears and your fists clenched in your jacket pockets but at least you were nearly home. 

Head still down and cap pulled low, you didn’t notice someone turning out of your gate at the same time as you went in and the ‘hey!’ came a little too late, as you bumped into them. Looking up you groaned inwardly to see it was Bucky.

“Shit. Sorry, I wasn’t looking. I’m sorry,” you jabbered, cursing yourself for always being some kind of crazy around him.

“No harm done, you OK?” You nodded, and he gestured for you to walk through the gate before him, saying “ladies first” with a twinkle in his eye, then winking and continuing on his way.

You unlocked the door, checked for mail to see it hadn’t arrived yet and then made it into your apartment, breathing deeply. Exhausted by the stress, you threw yourself face down on the couch and lay there, unmoving, until you started to feel relaxed. The hard bit was done. Now you could hide again.

The door buzzer rang and you heaved yourself up and went to answer it. The mailman with a parcel again. Letting him in, you took it and saw it was for Bucky. You took it in, put it on the table and got on with your day, curtains firmly closed after you’d faced the outside world.

Today was obviously the day for All The Things to happen. Having been to the post office, taken in a parcel, and now planning to hide away and do housework, there was a knock on your door about an hour later. It was the woman from upstairs, Mary.

“I am so sorry, but do you know how to get in contact with the man in apartment 1?” she looked slightly frantic, and was clutching their toddler in her arms who was wet through and giggling, reaching out to you with a sticky looking hand.

“Hey, no, I’m sorry, I don’t, I saw him go out a while ago”. You didn’t know Mary well but she was familiar enough to talk to a little more easily than some. “Is everything OK?”

“Oh god, it’s a disaster! I hurt my back and the painkillers knocked me out, I’ve been asleep, I didn’t mean to.” She was babbling, looking panicked, and you felt sympathy for her. “Ellie decided she wanted to play with boats so she turned on the taps on the tub and the basin in the bathroom, with the plugs in. There’s water EVERYWHERE and I’m afraid it’s dripping through the ceiling and I can’t get the landlord on the phone”. She looked close to tears. You took a breath, and spoke.

“Come in, sit down, it’s OK. Give me Ellie if your back is bad”. When you needed to help someone, you could put aside your anxiety on their behalf, it was only when you needed to help yourself that you struggled. Mary and Ellie had never been inside your apartment before, but you shoed them in, glad it wasn’t too messy, and sat Mary down. As you took Ellie from her, she suddenly started crying.

“When I think what could have happened! She could have drowned; I was so out of it. I didn’t know they’d knock me out like that”. She was talking fast through her tears and Ellie was starting to look distressed. You found your keys and grabbed some wooden spoons from the kitchen to give to Ellie, putting her on the floor to play, and sat down beside Mary, picking up her hands and turning her to face you.

“Hey, it’s OK. Something could have happened, but it didn’t. It hasn’t. Focus on that, not the ‘what if’s. It’s not your fault, you didn’t know how you’d react to new medication and it’s all turned out OK. Let it out, then put it behind you.” You could hear the therapist-speak you’d picked up from all your own visits coming out.

Mary burst into proper tears and put her head on your shoulder. You put your arms around her and held her while trying to reassure Ellie with a smile and a stuck out tongue. Physical contact like this wasn’t something you understood very well and you were starting to overthink this – were your arms in the right place? Had she wanted a hug? Should you be patting her back, rubbing her shoulder? How would you know when to stop? You felt Mary draw a deeper breath and then lean away from you.

“Damn, sorry, I didn’t mean to do that. Let’s blame the meds? Although I’m still terrified of what the water might be doing to the apartment downstairs. I don’t know how long the water was overflowing but our place is flooded” She seemed on the verge of breaking down again, so you knew you had to take charge. At least that was something you could do, disaster management. Like your whole life…

“OK, let’s go get you and Ellie changed and sort out your home. We’ll leave a note for Bucky pinned to his door for when he gets in. You try the landlord again?” she gathered Ellie up in her arms, the toddler still chewing on one of your spoons, and you all went upstairs.

You’d been up here before, looking after Ellie while Mary and Daniel went out sometimes, so you knew our way around. You said you’d get Ellie sorted while Mary got changed and wrote a note for Bucky, so you headed for her bedroom. Finding dry clothes, you got her re-dressed and swapped out the spoon for some of her toys, then put her into the playpen in the living room, and headed to the bathroom.

The floor was still soaked, although worryingly there wasn’t as much water as you’d expected – either Mary had been overly dramatic or it really all had soaked through the floor. The floor was just boards, painted white, and there were gaps between the boards so you were guessing Bucky’s apartment could be a little the worse for wear. Mary came in, in shorts and bare feet now, and with a mop and cloths. You took the mop from her, though she objected, but told her to go and sit down and get Ellie sorted, you’d got this.

You mopped up what was left on the floor, trying to dry out the boards as best you could, using the cloths to get up every last trace from under cabinets and behind the door. You heard Mary talking to someone and assumed it was Ellie. You heard footsteps behind you as you finished wiping up the floor but didn’t turn until you heard Mary speak.

“She’d filled the tub, and the sink, it was everywhere, she was just sitting in the water on the floor, playing with boats, it was almost to my ankles and it’s all gone down”

You turned, and realised that she wasn’t talking to you, but to Bucky, who’d obviously seen the note and come up. Blushing, you realised that while they’d been talking you’d been kneeling on the floor, ass in the air, so stood up quickly. Bucky seemed his usual cheerful self, grinning at you despite the chaos.

“Hey, I’ll go look and see what’s come through. I’ve got kid sisters, I know what kids are like, don’t worry about it!”

“Are you always this chilled?” You didn’t mean to ask, but it came out of nowhere. Although you were embarrassed you were secretly pleased that you’d got a whole sentence out in one go. He laughed, looking delighted at the question.

“Pretty much!” he answered, “I had some really tough times a few years back, got myself into a pretty dark place, but changed my mind-set with a bit of help from friends. Now, try not to sweat the small stuff, try to do what makes me happy. It’s a better way of life.” Damn he was talkative.

You, Mary, Ellie and Bucky all ended up going downstairs to see how things were. It was not great. The ceiling was bulging ominously, water had collected at the bottom of a wall, which was now soaked, and nothing electric in the apartment was working. Mary kept apologising and looking horrified while Ellie shouted ‘puddle’ and wanted to get down and splash. In the end, Bucky sent Mary off to try and landlord again, to calm her down. 

“We should probably move your stuff”, you gestured around the apartment. It was cosy, there were rugs on the floor, photos on the walls, and musical instruments everywhere. There were books and piles of music scattered around and although he’d not lived there long, it looked homely. Bucky rubbed the back of his neck and sighed.

“I’d just got this how I liked it… oh well, gotta keep positive, it’s fixable right? Hey, can I put my instruments in your apartment? They’re pretty precious and they don’t like the damp, my babies”

You smiled, his attitude to life infectious. You knew later on you’d replay all this in your head, reviewing all the things you’d said or done wrong, but for now you were running on the adrenaline of the chaos and enjoying being able to help.

You and Bucky spent the next hour or so moving books, instruments, rugs, photos, clearing most of the room and taking everything over to your apartment. Bucky had thrown down towels on the puddle as a quick check on it spreading but your first priority was moving things. You’d sent Mary away, telling her it was fine, and to go lie down to rest her back, and put Ellie down for a nap. She’d been calmed by Bucky’s amused attitude to the disaster, he seemed unphased by anything and was happily chatting away about the things you moved, not noticing – or too polite to mention – that you didn’t respond much, and often stammered nervously.

Eventually, the room clear, you both stood up, stretching out aching back muscles. You stood near the wall and prodded at the plaster, which sunk damply under the pressure. It was an old apartment and the plaster hadn’t been great anyway. Bucky fetched a mop and came to stand next to you, ready to clean up, then looked up at the ceiling. You looked up too. The paper was still bulging downwards and you guessed that most of the water had come straight through Mary’s floorboards and was in there. You noticed Bucky’s head come down and his eyes met yours, then with one swift prod of the mop handle, he punctured the paper on the ceiling and the water came raining down on your heads. Bucky put his head back and howled with laughter and you shrieked, then you both collapsed against the damp wall, laughing hysterically and soaked through to the skin.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for all the angst :( I can't seem to write anything happy

It had been a long time since you’d laughed so much, and even longer since you’d laughed with another person and not just the TV for company. You were both soaked, and pretty filthy, with bits of plaster dust and wallpaper and god only knows what in your hair. You rubbed your hands over your face to get the water out of your eyes and then realised just what the water had done to you both. Bucky’s t-shirt was now, well, a wet t-shirt. With all the connotations of tightness and muscles on show that came with it. You were surreptitiously eyeing him and noticing the shapes that were revealed by the way his shirt was clinging when it suddenly occurred to you that your shirt must be doing similar. You looked down and, yes, you could practically read the label on your bra. Turning scarlet, you looked back up and caught Bucky’s eye; had he noticed? Had he been looking…? The laughter had come to an end although Bucky was still grinning.

“That was hilarious, oh god, the shriek you made!” He started to laugh again and you couldn’t help but grin back at him, although you also crossed your arms over your chest, slightly awkwardly. You looked around the apartment. It was just as well you’d moved everything out because it was awash with filthy water, splattered everywhere.

“I’ll just go get changed, and I’ll help you clean up” you said. Between laughing and working together to get things moved, you felt more relaxed in his company, and able to talk with a little more ease.

“No need, honestly, it’s my mess” he replied, but you shook your head and told him you’d be back, then went to get changed.

You pulled on a pair of shorts, to stop your trousers getting wet, sneakers, and a dry t-shirt, and grabbed your cleaning things as quickly as you could. Bucky was already started, trousers rolled up and t-shirt changed, barefoot. You worked alongside one another, mopping up, then getting down on hands and knees to try and dry up as well as you could and get rid of the dirt. You’d almost finished when there was a knock at the door. Mary had finally got hold of the landlord and he’d come round to see what was going on.

You stood awkwardly while Bucky and Mary explained between them what had happened. You knew your landlord fairly well and knew he was a decent guy. He poked at the wall and noticed how the plaster fell out, and when Bucky told him the electrics had all gone, he nodded.

“OK, I’ll get my guys out on Monday” he said, taking his phone out of his pocket and starting to text. “The plaster will have to all come down, they’ll need to check if we need a rewire, put up new drywall, redo the ceiling. It’ll be at least a week.” Bucky nodded – at least his kitchen and bedroom hadn’t been affected – and they agreed timings and access and so on before he left, heading upstairs with Mary to see the damage in her bathroom. You gathered up your stuff and prepared to head back when Bucky spoke.

“Hey, thank you for all the help”. The irrepressible grin was still there, nothing seemed to worry him or bring him down. You and he were polar opposites, it seemed. “Can I say thank you properly? Maybe go out for pizza tonight, I’m way too tired to cook!” Your heart froze and you felt a chill, all the relaxation gone from your body in an instant. It must have shown in your face as you saw Bucky’s smile falter slightly.

“I can’t, I mean, I don’t, I, um, I, sorry. Thank you but, I….” so much for speaking with more ease. Tears welled up in your eyes and you gathered up your stuff and left, just managing not to run, turning at the door and saying “sorry” again. You nearly bumped into Mary and the landlord as you scuttled back across the hall, before reaching your apartment and shutting the door firmly behind you.

You sat on the floor just inside the door and dug your fingernails into your arm, trying to use the pain to distract yourself and to punish yourself and to just forget everything. 

Because you were sitting near the door, you could hear the conversation in the hallway. Mary and the landlord were agreeing dates, and she was apologising to both him and Bucky again for the chaos. After the landlord left, you heard Bucky’s voice call to Mary, who must have been heading back upstairs.

“Hey, can I ask you something?” You heard her footsteps come back down. You weren’t listening intentionally; you just couldn’t find the motivation to make any move. You could just sit there until the world ended, it would be easier than trying to exist. You heard more talking, quieter now, but you didn’t care, then Bucky’s voice was raised again.

“I thought we were getting on OK, then I offered to take her out for pizza as a thank you and she ran. I feel like I’m missing something.” Your stomach lurched, feeling as if you'd missed a step in the dark as you realised he was talking about you. And for once he didn’t sound his happy self. Angry? Hurt? You couldn’t tell but something had made his voice rise. You knew that this was the point when you should move away, eavesdroppers never heard good things, but you didn’t, even as you felt yourself warm with shame.

“Ah, no, she doesn’t go out. Not ever really, poor kid. Anxiety, but that doesn’t cover the half of it. She’s a sweetheart but if you asked her to leave the building she probably freaked out.” You heard Mary sigh. “Me and Daniel have wondered if there’s anything we can do – anything we should do. She’s great with Ellie and a love but she shuts herself off. Mrs Campbell, who lived here before you, used to try and find out what was behind it, but she never got far. Just that something had happened a few years back and now… this. Just be gentle with her?”

You felt… something. Angry that you’d been the subject of conversation, with Mrs Campbell, Mary, Daniel, and now Bucky too, all feeling they had a right to talk about you. But also, touched. That Mrs Campbell and Mary and Daniel had worried about you. And then the guilt, that someone like you had impinged on their thoughts for even a moment. You dropped your head to your knees for a moment then realised it was time to move. You’d heard more than enough. Quietly, you made your way to the bathroom and pulled off your wet and dirty clothes, chucking them in the tub until you could rinse them out. You stood under the shower, hoping the warmth would relax you but you felt like crying with frustration and sadness at the world. ‘She shuts herself off’ echoed in your head. You did, and you didn’t know how to stop.

Getting out and drying off, you put on your warmest clothes, wanting to feel wrapped up, then slumped on the couch, lying back with a deep sigh. You should eat. Sort those dirty clothes. Check your email. All sorts of things. You weren’t though, you were just lying there. 

You must have dozed off, because something woke you later on. You blinked – the apartment had grown dark while you slept – and tried to work out what you’d heard. The sound was repeated; it was someone knocking on your door. You stood up, stumbling slightly with the remains of sleep and went to open it. It was Bucky.

He was holding two large pizza boxes, a bag, a six pack of beer, some DVDs, a phone, a charger… you looked at him, puzzled.

“Um, can I come in before I drop this lot?” You stood back and let him in, and he dumped everything on your table and turned.

“So I wanted to say thank you properly. I don’t know about you but I’m shattered, so I thought eat in rather than go out?” He smiled at you, and you’d have believed him if you hadn’t overheard his conversation and knew he was trying to fit around your neuroses. 

“Then I thought beer too, might be good, but I didn’t know if you liked it, so I have wine in the bag too. And I thought we could watch a film, if you wanted, only my electricity’s out so it would have to be here, and then I thought that I really could do with charging my phone and wondered if I could do that here too…” he trailed off and gave you a sheepish smile, adding “please thank you?” You snorted quietly, he was a charmer.

“Sure, um, of course, help yourself to the, um, electricity”. For god’s sake, what kind of a sentence was that. Luckily he didn’t seem to notice, concentrating on plugging things in.

“And the pizza, beer, wine, DVDs…?” he asked.

“Sure” Your stomach was rumbling at the smell coming from the boxes, with all the clean-up and moving things, you’d not eaten for hours and you were pretty hungry now. You looked at the piles of music, instruments and books you’d carried over earlier. It was all a bit of a mess to reach the DVD player, and there was stuff stacked on chairs and tables and surfaces. You felt as if you didn’t know where to begin. It must have shown, because you realised Bucky was watching you.

“Sit down, I owe you for all the help, allow me to wait on you, ma’am” he said, with an old school charm. You didn’t want him to serve you but your brain wasn’t really working right now. He pushed gently on your shoulder so you sat down on the couch, and then passed you a pizza box.

“OK, decisions – wine or beer? And which movie?” You asked for wine and he pulled a bottle out of the bag, along with a glass, and poured you some, nodding to the DVDs he’d left on the table.

“I, um, I don’t mind. I’m not great at making decisions”, you said, giving him a half smile and taking the wine he passed you.

“No problem, I noticed you were reading sci-fi the other day so I brought over some random stuff you might like” He put one into the player, then tried to figure out your remotes, before sitting down next to you and passing them over. You got everything turned on, feeling highly conscious of the warmth of his arm near you on the couch. Your stomach rumbled loudly and he laughed.

“OK, let’s eat. It’s been a hell of a day!” he paused then looked at you. “Is this OK? I mean, you don’t mind me just barging in? Because if you’re too tired or…whatever… it’s OK to ask me to go.”

His consideration, on top or your tiredness, was almost enough to make you cry. You liked him, and wanted him there. You hated to admit how lonely your life was but having someone burst into it, larger than life, as Bucky was, just highlighted how cold and grey it was otherwise.

“No, it’s nice, it’s fine. Thank you. You didn’t need to, but, it’s fine”.

“Excellent” he said, giving you another devastating grin, “ok, eat, drink, movie!”

The pizza went down fast, you’d both worked up an appetite with all the moving and cleaning, and the beer and wine went down fast as well. The movie choice was ideal, funny and dramatic but no edge to it. By the time it finished, you’d both slid well down on the couch, feet on the coffee table. You’d started relaxing again, now that the pressure of going outside had been removed – that and the alcohol. When the film finished, you shut off the TV and sat yourself up a bit, assuming he’d want to leave now, bored of your company, and he sat up too, then stood.

“Wait here!” he waved a hand at you.

“I live here!”. He laughed and jogged out of the apartment, colliding with a wall at one point and giggling. He left your door open and you heard him enter his apartment then a moment later, return.

“My electric’s gone so we have to eat ALL my ice-cream!” he shouted gleefully, carrying three containers of ice-cream.

“That is a LOT of ice-cream, how are you not enormous, you pig!” you laughed, and then screamed as he pushed one of the containers down the back of your neck, freezing and leaving ice crystals dripping down your back. You leapt up and danced around, trying to shake the carton out the bottom of your sweater while Bucky lay back and howled with laughter.

Eventually getting the ice-cream out you sat back and rubbed your back against the couch, trying to warm it up and dry out the ice, glaring at Bucky as you did so.

“Ah, god, I’m sorry” he wheezed, “I just had to, I couldn’t resist, oh god that was funny. Great dancing!”. You couldn’t resist grinning back, as you went to grab bowls from the kitchen to dish up the three flavours.

“I’m glad I made the decision to move here, I had a good feeling about this place” he said as you scooped out ice-cream.

“Where were you before?” you asked, “I mean, if you don’t mind me asking.”

“Nah, it’s good. I used to live with a friend, Steve, but he's just got engaged and so it was time to move out. We were way over the other side of the city, I kinda miss being near everyone but a lot of my friends were moving on, and I needed a change. This just felt nice when I saw it, y’know. I like to push myself, do stuff that makes no sense like moving to the other side of the city. Had some tough times a while back and now I try to just say yes to everything. Steve and a coupla friends are coming over tomorrow... Oh, shit, no, I’ll have to cancel, my apartment! Shit, I was looking forward to seeing them!”

He grabbed up his phone, asking ‘do you mind if I..?’ and you shook your head, then started clearing up the pizza boxes. 

“Steve, hey, sorry, gonna have to cancel tomorrow… I know! My apartment’s flooded, got no electricity, ceiling’s come down… yeah? I guess… you sure? OK! See ya tomorrow”

“He said he’s not missing seeing me, they’re all coming anyway, they’ll bring a cooler of beer, and we’ll have a barbecue. Ah, it’ll be good to see them. Hey, you want to come over? Meet my friends?”

The anxiety hit again, despite the wine. You’d started feeling relaxed with Bucky and his puppy-like enthusiasm, but a load of his friends would be way too much. 

“I, er, I can’t, thanks, um, Bucky”. Convincing, yup, nailed that one. He nodded with a half-smile at your attempt.

“OK sweetheart, I’d better get to bed. Thanks for the help today, and the electricity”. He picked up his phone and charger, then before you had a chance to react, kissed you on the cheek, one hand on your waist, then waved his hand, calling, “I will see you tomorrow!” as he left.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ARGH!! Somehow I missed this chapter when I was uploading them! I'm so cross with myself!
> 
>  
> 
> In this chapter, Sam, Steve and Nat (where DID I get those names from?!) come over.

You stood there for a moment, stunned, sure you could still feel the warmth of his hand on your skin, his mouth on your cheek. You didn’t realise you were smiling at first, then quickly stopped, and started locking up. You couldn’t let yourself have feelings for him, that’s not how your life was set to work out. You got yourself a glass of water and drank it down, aware you’d had a lot of alcohol, then got ready and crashed into bed, exhausted, but still with the warm feeling inside you.

The next morning you woke up with a headache again and decided you really needed to cut down on the alcohol. You went out into the living room and groaned at the sight of wine glasses, bottles, DVDs, and of course, all the books and music and god only knows what else you’d brought over from Bucky’s flat. You half-heartedly moved a few things around but then made coffee, grabbed a banana, and flung yourself onto the couch with Netflix and a blanket. 

It was a couple of hours later that you were woken by voices out in the hall. You recognised Bucky’s voice and there were quite a few more – obviously his friends had arrived. They all sounded happy and confident and full of life and you couldn’t help comparing yourself to them, with your inability to get a sentence out half of the time. Your headache had gone with the nap and coffee so you withdrew from the happy sounds to shower. Once you were dressed, you decided it would be a good day to clean up a bit. You’d finished the work for the brief, you didn’t have anything urgent left to do, so you set to vacuuming, cleaning, changing the bed, trying to shift Bucky’s things into some kind of order. You spent most of the day on housework, aware that you were also listening out for sounds from over the hall. The sun was out and you suspected they’d gone out into the yard at the back for their planned barbecue. You had no windows that looked out that way, and were glad as the last thing you needed was to torture yourself with things you couldn’t be part of.

Eventually you ran out of things to do. It wasn’t late enough for bed yet, and you couldn’t settle to anything. Bucky coming into the building had shifted all your usual routines and now you weren’t satisfied with loneliness, but had no way around it. You sighed, picked up your book and headed to bed, knowing you wouldn’t sleep yet. 

Sunday loomed ahead of you when you finally woke. It was 6am and you felt unsettled and annoyed by everything. There was no housework left to do, no work to do, nothing to fill the long hours. You spent an hour running on the treadmill, took a leisurely shower and then made coffee and breakfast, and it still wasn’t even 9am. Groaning, you decided to do some sketching, something that often passed the time for you. You’d spent quite a few years now drawing children’s books so it was good to get your practice in on other styles. You spent a few hours drawing sketches of Bucky’s instruments, of the couch, but felt uninspired by the limited options available in your room. Sighing, you sat back for a moment, then turned to a clean page in your sketchbook, and started to sketch Bucky from memory. You were so caught up in drawing, carefully adding details, that when a knock came at the door, you jumped and left a big mark across the page. 

Dropping the sketch book on a cupboard, you made for the door, opening it anxiously to see Bucky smiling as always, with people standing behind him. Your heart rate started to rise.

“Hey, sorry, I just wanted to come and say hi, and introduce my friends, I’ve been telling them about the flood and they wanted to meet you.” Somehow as he spoke, they’d all ended up in your entry way and you were feeling hot and flustered.

“Hi, um, everyone” you said, hoping that wold be enough.

“This is Sam, Steve, and Natasha” Bucky said and you nodded at them all, then “actually, we kind of have a favour to ask….” They’d obviously planned this as suddenly everyone put on their best puppy dog begging face, while you looked on. 

“My electricity isn’t working and we’re all hungover, and there’s no coffee shop nearby and pleeeease can we have some coffee? I will owe you big time.”

You couldn’t think of a way to say no, or to say ‘yes but only if you go away’ so politeness won over and you smiled and headed to the kitchen followed by cheers.

Setting the coffee pot going, you got out mugs, milk, sugar, spoons, trying to keep busy and ignore the fact that there were four people in your living room. At least you’d tidied yesterday, you thought, then your head shot up as you realised you’d left your drawing – of Bucky – out when you’d opened the door. 

You peered through into the living room and saw that Bucky and Sam were sitting on the couch while Nat and Steve seemed to be standing by your desk. Where was the sketch book? Oh god, was Nat looking through your work? That was just rude. You dodged back into the kitchen as the coffee finished, feeling flushed with anger at your space being violated, knowing that a lot of the anger was really directed at yourself for the anxiety and shame you felt. You knew they were just being friendly, surely. Bucky was kind, maybe his friends were too. Or perhaps Bucky had told them about his weird neighbour who couldn’t go out and they’d all come to pry? You put your elbows down on the counter and rubbed the heels of your hands into your eyes with anxiety, then heard a voice behind you; Bucky.

“Hey I just came to see if you needed a hand. And to check you were OK with this. I’m sorry, I think I was raving on about you yesterday and my friends all wanted to meet you. I guess you’re not that keen on having so many people in your space, we won’t stay, I just… didn’t want to tell them you might not like it, that wasn’t my information to share.”

You’d turned as he was speaking. He was looking uncomfortable, slightly ashamed of what he’d put you through, and that in itself was enough to turn things around. He was trying his best, without giving away your feelings to strangers, that counted for a lot. Plus you hated to think your anxieties were making HIM feel bad.

“It’s fine, it’s OK. Just not used to having people here, but, um, it’s fine, don’t go”. You loaded a tray up and carried the coffee out to the living room, eyes still out for the sketch book.

“Hey, you drew these?!” Nat asked. OK, she wasn’t actually looking through your work, just at some you had pinned up on a board near your desk. You nodded, setting the tray down on the coffee table, then realised that Sam, standing up now, looking as if he’d been browsing your bookshelves, was holding the sketch book, still open at the page with the drawing of Bucky. He must have felt your eyes on him, looking up as you flushed, but he didn’t say anything, just handed the book back with a friendly smile. You flushed further and took the book out to the kitchen, shoving it into a cupboard and then hiding for a few more minutes. Bucky came to find you again.

“Hey, I’m sorry, this is too much, isn’t it? I know we can be a bit overwhelming” – the chatter from the living room was loud and raucous now, lots of laughing. “It was thoughtless, I’m really sorry”

“No, really, it’s my problem, not yours” you said, ashamed that you were hiding. You went back out to the living room again and grabbed some coffee, sitting on the floor against the wall – part of the group on your couch and chairs, but far enough away to be ignored. You listened to them chat, all obviously having known each other for long enough to tease and joke. They all tried to include you, asking your opinion, asking you questions, bringing you in to the group, but each time you tried to speak, you felt yourself stumble over words and your voice would tail off. You were sure they were all looking at you with pity and scorn now. It was a relief when, half an hour or so later, Bucky spoke up.

“OK, we’ve barged in and disrupted your day, and drunk your coffee, we should leave you in peace now. Guys, we need some major hangover food now”. He started hustling his friends out, they all smiled and thanked you for the coffee, saying it was nice to meet you and all the right things. As they were leaving, Nat turned.

“Wait, you are coming with us, right?” She looked at you as she spoke.

“I, um, I have to get some work done, but thanks” you said, stepping back as if you were afraid she’d drag you outside. As you stepped back, you bumped into something behind you. Turning, you realised you’d stepped back into Bucky.

“Thanks for the coffee, and for putting up with us, sweets”. He had his hands on your waist, where he’d caught you as you bumped into him. He pulled you in for a short, gentle hug, whispering in your ear as he did, “sorry if it was a bit much. We’ll get out of your hair. See you tomorrow?” You barely had time to nod before he’d kissed your cheek again and left, pulling your door closed behind him.

The apartment suddenly seemed very quiet and empty. You were used to this but after the past few days of noise and contact, your ears seemed to ring in the silence. Quietly, you started to clear up but your mind was on the feeling of the kiss again. 

Sunday had dragged after the noise and energy of the morning. You’d made a start on some paperwork, paid some bills, sketched a bit more, all with one ear out for noises from apartment 1. Eventually you gave up on the day and took yourself to bed, all the while reliving the feel of Bucky’s arms on you.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good news and bad stories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't proofread this because it's gone midnight so apologies for any glaring errors.
> 
> And usual apologies for, like, y'know, the quality...

The next morning you woke early and planned to be more productive after your chaotic weekend. You’d exercised, showered, and dressed by 8am and were sitting down at your desk with a mug of tea, reading through work emails and trying to get focussed and productive, when the silence was broken by voices, banging and chaos outside. Peering through the spyhole on the door, you realised that the workmen had come to start fixing the flood damage on Bucky’s apartment. A succession of men in overalls were carrying in ladders, tools, dry wall, buckets… At least it was going to be fixed.

You went back to work and settled down, but half an hour later there was a bang on the door. Opening it up, you saw Bucky smiling at you.

“I’ve kinda come to ask yet another favour” he smiled, and you stood back so he could come in. “I need to work, I’ve got stuff to do, but it’s just chaos in my apartment. I can’t trek over to Steve’s; is there any chance I can work here? I won’t make any noise, I can work on my keyboard with headphones on, and I need to send some emails if I can hook up to your wi-fi and I will make this all up to you somehow! I know you’re not really a people person, I just can’t cope with the noise and dust over there”

You’d had more people in your home in the last few weeks than in the rest of the three years you’d lived there, but you still found it an odd sensation. But Bucky? The idea of him sitting on your couch for the day was secretly thrilling. 

“Of course, it’s fine, just, sure, come in”. Damn it, you were doing it again, he already WAS in. He beamed at you, ran back to grab his stuff, then came back in carrying laptop, phone, keyboard, headphones, papers… you took some from him before it all fell, and put everything down on the coffee table.

“I was going to make coffee, if you’d like some?” you asked, then at his nod, headed into the kitchen. By the time you came back with two mugs, he’d set himself up with everything arranged around the couch.

“You sure this is ok?” he asked, looking slightly anxious.

“Sure, it’s fine, I need to get on with some work, but, if you need anything, just, um, ask”. You gave him the wi-fi password, his coffee and then went back to your desk. A work email had come in that you needed to get on with, making changes to some artwork you’d sent over a week or so ago. You started to find the right drawings to work from, your back tingling, hyperaware that there was someone – Bucky – behind you. You tried not to turn around but after a few minutes, peeked behind you. He was sitting cross legged on your couch, keyboard on his lap and headphones on, playing something, then making notes on some paper beside him. He looked completely caught up in his work, and you relaxed slightly, although were disappointed that you couldn’t hear his music, you’d loved it before.

You settled into your own work eventually, getting so engrossed in what you were doing, as you always did, that you were oblivious to the building noises from next door, your own hunger, the presence of Bucky in your flat. It was only when you heard a voice behind you that you started, brought back to your senses.

“Shit, sorry, I didn’t mean to make you jump, I thought you knew I was there, did you ruin your drawing?” 

You shook your head, and he continued.

“You get really lost in what you’re doing huh? Me too. I was just saying, this is amazing, I didn’t know you could do all this”. Compliments left you flustered, although deep down you knew you were good at what you do, but it feels arrogant to agree so you stay silent. “Can I see what else you’ve done? I mean, if you don’t mind, I’d love to look” You nod, and get up so he can sit in your chair.

“It’s just kids’ books really” you say, before he starts expecting too much. “Although I did apply for a commission last week”. You open up the folder on your laptop showing the scans of the commission work, and pat the pile of sketchbooks on your desk. “Um, yeah, look if you want, it’s… I’m going to get a drink and some stuff to eat… I’ll er…”

You leave him to it, uncomfortable with standing there while someone looks at your work. You make drinks, get some snacks together, then head back out. He’s still sitting at your desk and flicking through your pile of sketchbooks. Oh. Shit. You realise he’s flicking through the sketchbook you’d dumped there when you were clearing up after his friends had been in. The sketchbook that has the picture of him in. 

“Hey, that’s me!” Yeah, that would definitely be that sketchbook then. “I can’t believe you drew me, that is so awesome!” He looks up at you with a wide eyed look, but you busy yourself with putting down the tray you’re carrying

“Hey, seriously, I’m amazed. Did you do this from memory?”

“Um, yeah, I, well, I don’t get out much to see new things to draw, so, I’m sorry, I just, yeah…” Another fantastic sentence, you keep your head down and don’t make eye contact, so you’re surprised when you feel yourself suddenly hugged.

“Why would I mind, you jerk, it’s great! Hey, since I’ve seen your work, want to hear what I’m working on?”

“Absolutely, yes!” You’re relieved at the change of subject and also thrilled at the thought of hearing him play again. Bucky sits back down on the couch, keyboard on his lap again, and you sit on the floor nearby, the chairs being overloaded with all his stuff at the moment.

This is very different to the piece you’d heard him working on before. Faster, louder, it makes the hair stand up on the back of your neck with an electric tingle. You shut your eyes, to enjoy the music and the sensation all the better, smiling to yourself as the music makes your heart sing. When it comes to an end, you open your eyes to find Bucky watching you.

“What do you think?” He looks unsure of himself, not something you’ve seen before. He’s frowning slightly and fidgeting with his music.

“That was fucking beautiful.” You say, glad to get a sentence out in one go, and equally glad to see the frown disappear from Bucky’s face and a grin reappear. “honestly, that made my spine tingle and my heart race, I loved it”

With a yell, Bucky flung his keyboard onto the couch and leapt on you, squeezing you into a hug which caused you to squawk in surprise.

“Sorry! I get a bit tactile when I’m happy!” He backs off, still smiling at you, and it’s obviously contagious as you’re smiling back. This feels good. Relaxed, easy. There are still moments when the fear flares up but being with someone is such a relief from the loneliness that you’ve lived with for so long. 

“God, I’m starving, it’s late! I’m gonna go get us some lunch, it’s OK if I bring it here?” Bucky asks and you realise that the snacks and drinks you’d got out have long been forgotten and actually you need more than that. With his usual puppy dog enthusiasm, Bucky heads out of the door.

You shuffle a few things around to try and make some space, then realise you’re just trying to kill time – and you have no long that time will be – so head back to the desk and tidy the sketchbooks Bucky was looking through, getting your desk ready for more work in the afternoon. A little later, someone knocks on the door and you let Bucky back in. He’s carrying three bags of food, and sheepishly admits that since he didn’t know what you liked, he bought a lot. He starts to set it all out on the table, while you get plates and cutlery from the kitchen, and then laugh as you realise just how much he’s got.

Lunch is good, not just the food which is much more interesting than anything you usually make yourself, but the company as well. Bucky talks enough for both of you so it’s OK that you can’t always get out every sentence you want to say, or that you’re overthinking every question, but it’s not until you’re clearing up that you realise he’s got quite a lot out of you, just by the way he talks.

After lunch, you both settle back down to work. You’ve made coffee to fight off that post-meal sleepiness, although the way you’re having to lean your head in your hand suggests you might need more than one. Bucky has sat himself down and is putting headphones on again when you speak.

“Hey, um, Bucky. You don’t need to use the headphones. I like the music. I mean, unless you prefer?” He unplugs them from the keyboard with a smile over his shoulder and you start to work to the sound of his music, energised and buoyed up by the sounds and the company. 

Your week continues like this while the work on Bucky’s apartment goes on. The builders arrive and a little later, Bucky knocks at your door, armed with whatever he needs for the day. He’s playing so you can hear now, and you’re amazed at the range of instruments he plays. You sit and work while he plays and your drawing is affected by the music, so much so that you’re now keeping a sketchbook out just to draw with the melodies. You’re on top of your normal work so this new side project is something just for you.

Every day so far, Bucky has gone out to buy something for lunch – you’ve told him you’ve got food in, but after looking in your fridge, he rolled his eyes and continued going out. He’s said it’s thanks for letting him use your apartment, but you feel you should be thanking him; once the builders have finished, you’re going to find your silent apartment even more oppressive.

By Wednesday evening, your routine now includes dinner, beer and TV, stretching out your time together to include leisure as well as work. You’ve both cooked, neither doing so expertly but good enough that you can happily eat spaghetti Bolognese or pie while binge watching episodes of your favourite shows. This is so much more fun in company and you’re going to miss it. 

On Friday, /Bucky stops working around 5 and stands up, stretching and trying to ease his muscles after sitting hunched over for too long. The groaning sinks through into your consciousness and, turning and seeing Bucky, practically trying to bend backwards to ease his spine, you realise how stiff you are. You’ve always drawn hunched over no matter how much you’re told to relax, so as you straighten you can’t help yelping as muscles pull and knot.

You put away what you’ve been working on, all while trying to dig your fingers into knots on your shoulder muscles, when you jump, startled, as someone else’s hands take over. Bucky is kneading your shoulders and you’re trying very hard not to tense at the unfamiliar touch.

“Jeez, you are knotted up tighter than me” he says, as you have to bite your lip to stop another yell as he hits a knot with his thumb.

“I’m good, it’s, it’s OK. Sorry, I’m not great at being touched” you’ve realised that this is just making you more tense, the combination of touch and discomfort bringing back memories you’re not keen to see resurface. Bucky instantly drops his hands, a contrite and concerned expression on his face. You apologise again, “sorry, it’s a… thing. Long story. Thankyou though”

He gives you a sideways smile and you curse yourself for ruining the moment. He pats his hand on the chair back and you’re afraid he’s going to leave, when your cell phone rings. Checking the screen and welcoming the distraction, you see it’s your agent. Bucky waves his hand, telling you to take the call, and heads to the kitchen.

“Hi, yeah… they did?... they do?.... oh shit! Sorry, I mean, that’s…. yes! Absolutely! Whatever! Oh wow, thank you…. Yeah, you too… bye”

You sit back in your chair, hands running through your hair, then jump up and start bouncing up and down in excitement. Bucky, alerted by the noise, appears in the kitchen doorway and looks at you in bewilderment.

“I GOT IT! I actually got it! The commission! Oh jeez, I can’t believe it, they liked my work, they want me in on the whole book. The. Whole. Fucking. Book. Oh shit, sorry, I’m just, this is what I’ve wanted for so long!” 

By now Bucky is laughing, caught up in your excitement, and surprising yourself, you fling your arms around him, your fear of touch overrun by your energy and by being the one to take control for a change. He squeezes you back and for a moment you both just bounce up and down laughing until you let go and fling yourself on the couch.

“Oh god, I’m sorry Bucky, I’m just a bit overexcited!” you grin, stating the obvious, and Bucky sits at the end of the couch near your feet and smiles along with you, then leaps up.

“Wait there!” he calls and heads out of the apartment, leaving your door open. Left alone, you hear him opening his apartment door, as you hug a pillow to yourself and feel tears smart in your eyes. You’d done it. You’d proved him wrong, saying you’d never amount to anything, that you had no talent, that you were worthless.

By the time Bucky got back, just a few minutes later, you were still clutching the pillow to your chest, but crying. He was by your side in a second.

“Hey, baby, what’s going on, I thought this was a good thing?” He’s got one hand resting on the pillow, near yours, but carefully not touching you.

“It is. It is. I’m just being stupid. I just, I’ve shown him, I’ve proved him wrong. Fuck! Sorry.” You drag a hand across your eyes, then put it back down, on top of Bucky’s. He puts his other hand on top and laces your fingers together.

“Hey, no need to apologise. But you’re OK?” you nod, sitting up and sighing.

“Yeah. Bit overwhelmed by, you know, stuff. Old stuff.” You shrug, embarrassed at being caught out. You’re still holding hands, and Bucky starts to take his hand away, but as he does so, leans forward and kisses your forehead.

“It’s just as well you’re ok, because it’s time for a celebration!” He picks up a bottle that he’d collected from his apartment and you see it’s champagne. “Got this a while back, it’s been in the fridge, time to open it now!” He pops it and you giggle at the noise.

An hour or so later the bottle is empty and you’re half way down some wine you had in the cupboard. You’ve been ‘celebrating’ on empty stomachs and will feel it in the morning but at the moment you’re on a commission-wine-Bucky high and you’re both laughing at nothing and everything.

“Aaah, I don’t think I’ve laughed this much for… ever” you grin, waving your wine glass and then slurping wine that’s slopped onto your hand. “You make me laugh!” He cackles, leaning an arm on the armrest of the couch but missing and falling sideways. This is apparently the height of humour as you both howl with laughter, and you slap Bucky’s knee repeatedly, trying to draw breath.

“so why are you always so happy?” you ask when you’re finally able to speak again. Your head is resting on the back of the couch, feet on the coffee table, but you turn your head towards him as you ask. Your drunkenness has reached the ‘serious confession’ stage where you both thought deep and meaningful discussions were a good idea.

Bucky turned his head towards you too, his posture matching yours. You hadn’t put the lights on as it grew darker so the room was only lit by one table lamp in the corner, the darkness matching the confessional mood that seemed to have hit you both. He let out a long sigh.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked…” you started, but he patted your knee and hushed you. He left his hand on your knee as he spoke and you could feel the heat of his skin as if there was no fabric in the way.

“Nah, s’ok” he blew out another long breath. “My Mom died, three years ago now. I’d looked after her, it was… long.” You reached down and rested your hand over his, and he turned his hand palm up so you could hold hands. He looked down at your hands as he continued to speak. “I used to be a teacher. Music teacher, inna private school. But when Mom died, it all fell apart. Had depression, so bad. Lost my job, couldn’t function. Didn’t eat, slept all the time, everything was impossible. Was like that a long time. Steve kept me going. Lived together, he cooked, he sat with me. ‘s a good guy, Steve. Helped me back on my feet, just being there. Took me to doctor, got some pills. Taken its time but the darkness is going. My Mom always used to say to me, ‘gotta grasp life with two hands’ and she just used to smile and laugh all the time.” He let out a big sigh again, and you squeezed his fingers reminding him it was OK. He smiled at you but you saw that he had tears in his eyes. “I dunno, she lived a life full of laughter and that’s what she taught me to do ‘Swhat she wanted for me. So it’s what I’m gonna do. Find the good, y’know”

There was enough light to see that the tears were running down his face now. You leant over and put your arms around him, head on his shoulder. You could feel shudders running through him and you sat silently together while he collected himself. Being in control of when you were touched made things so much easier, and your need to comfort Bucky was much more important than anything else now.

“Your Mom sounds great” you said, adding “she’d be proud of you, and that her words helped you”.

“Yeah, she’d probably have dragged me out of bed long before Steve did”, you could hear the smile behind his words now as he gained control of himself. “So. Can I ask? What’s your story? What you so afraid of?” You stiffened unconsciously, it was only right that you both shared something but you were so afraid of being judged. “Hey, sorry, that wasn’t fair of me, s’fine, sorry”

“No, s’ok. I’ve never told anyone, just don’t wan’ you to think less of me” you said, then took a deep breath and began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's experience of depression and anxiety is different so I'm not implying it's always like this - even mine isn't like this, or as 'easily' solved. But this was the kind of experience that fit the plot. Sorry if you don't like it.
> 
> On a lighter note, the kind of book she's been commissioned for would be something like The Invention of Hugo Cabret or Wonderstruck by Brian Selznick (yes, I know he also wrote them, but artistic licence!). If you don't know them, they're beautiful!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You explain what's caused your fears.
> 
> **See notes**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter because I didn't want to fill it with extraneous stuff when the main discussion in here is serious. 
> 
> Trigger warning: whole chapter discusses domestic violence, please don't read if that will make you uncomfortable. I'm sorry.
> 
> This was hard to write, it was a little close to the bone :/

Where to start? 

“I had this boyfriend. We met in college, I had our whole future planned out you know? He was the popular kid at school so I kinda tried to please him, did what he asked, all that stuff. Was afraid he’d ditch me. He threatened to, if I put on weight or wore stuff he didn’t like. What did I know, I thought he was just looking out for me. We lived together after college, and I guess he got more controlling, bit by bit. I didn’t notice, it was so gradual, and there was always some justification, he was looking out for me, he loved me. But he didn’t like my friends, so I didn’t see them. He didn’t like me talking to people, so I didn’t much. Then…"

You paused, drew breath, wanting to get this out all in one go. Bucky’s hand was still on your knee, and he was looking at his hand, rather than at your face, which made things easier.

“… first time he hit me, it was because I’d forgotten to get some food he wanted. He apologised, swore it wouldn’t happen again.” 

You flushed. This was the point when you expected to be judged. Why hadn’t you left? Bucky didn’t say anything and you could feel your body tensing up with the anxiety and shame, but now you’d started you felt there was nothing to do but go on.

“Things were fine, then he found me talking to a neighbour. Male neighbour. He hit me twice that time. Cried on me after, told me it was because I’d made him jealous. It was my fault, y’know. I mean, I should have been better. Or I should have left, so he could have got someone better.”

Bucky’s eyes snapped up to your face, but you refused to look at him, staring straight ahead towards the TV as if there was something fascinating there rather than the empty screen.

“Carried on like that for a year or so,” your voice sounded so matter-of-fact, masking the tension in your throat as you replayed those years in your head. “Had a few broken fingers, few black eyes, split lips. Nobody to see anyway, I worked from home, didn’t have friends.”

Now your throat was getting tighter and you could hear the strain starting to tell in your voice, but you kept facing forward.

“Bumped into our neighbour again one night. Had a black eye, bruised face. He must have known how they’d got there, told me I should leave, he’d help me. Was a good guy. But he must have heard, he was coming up the stairs. Waited until I got in the apartment, then went for me. Broke two ribs that time, then he left.”

You could feel the muscles in your legs twitching with tension now, but you wanted to finally say it, to let the words out. Bucky would leave but at least he’d know the truth about you. He still hadn’t spoken but he must have felt your muscles spasming.

“Neighbour took me to the hospital. They helped me leave. I couldn’t press charges, I… couldn’t face it. Felt guilty I guess” you shrugged, “Responsible.”

You were nearly at an end now. You felt completely sober now although you couldn’t possibly be. The room was dark and Bucky was so still and quiet it was as if you were talking to yourself.

“Found a tiny apartment. Got my stuff when he was at work. Tried to start again. Few months later, he found me. Was waiting outside the apartment one night. Followed me in. Didn’t leave until I was unconscious”. Your voice was very quiet now, your eyes unfocussed as that night played on in your mind. “Rebroke my ribs. Fingers. One arm. Ankle. Detached retina in one eye. Bruises to my kidneys. Cigarette burns. You name it.” One more deep breath. “He was arrested after that. I moved here. But nowhere feels safe now. I know he’s locked up, but… it’s just hard to feel safe now. Hard to go outside, hard to let people near me. Hard to be touched, hard to do everything. And I guess I still love him. And it’s my own fault that this happened.”

And with that, it was done. The first time since the trial that you’d spoken about what happened. The first time you’d acknowledged it to yourself, and acknowledged your own constant feelings of guilt. Why didn’t you leave? Why weren’t you good enough? What did you do to make him behave like that? Could you have been better?

Bucky withdrew his hand from your knee, as you’d known he would, and you dropped your chin to your chest, and closed your eyes, exhausted now with tension and alcohol, and unable to bear the sight of Bucky as he walked away. You felt the couch shift as he moved and then the tears came, silently making their way down your face.

You hadn’t heard the door shut, but assumed Bucky had gone by now, so when you felt someone touch your cheek, you couldn’t stifle a loud gasp of fear. Your eyes wide open now, you saw Bucky still sitting beside you, turned now to face you, his face stern and unsmiling for almost the first time since you’d met.

“Thank you, for telling me. That must have taken some bravery and I’m touched that you did. But I can’t let you tell me you’re at fault. You aren’t; you weren’t. Nobody ever deserves to be hurt, no matter what they do or don’t do, it’s just wrong. You were so strong to leave, and I’m so sorry that you’re feeling so afraid. But you have a friend now, me, and I’ll help, anything you need. Because I care about you.”

And when you realised that Bucky was in tears as he talked, that was when you felt able to break down yourself, for the first time in so long.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some smut in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's taken me way too long to write this. I didn't really know where to go after the last chapter. 
> 
> This is only a short one because I needed to just break the block and get something down.
> 
> *** Somehow when I was uploading chapters over the last month or so, I missed out uploading one! So I have now uploaded chapter 6 in the right place - please read it!***

Bucky and you held on to each other and cried for a long time, for all the sadness in both your pasts. You were both still drunk, and worn out, and you’d both kept things bottled up and hidden for so long. Gradually the tears ran dry, but you stayed wrapped in each other in the dark. You talked, quietly; the dark giving permission to say things that you never would have dared in the light of day.

Bucky sighed softly, his breath warm on your skin as he told you that his enthusiasm and cheer were a façade, a front to hide behind, out of fear that the dark depression that had overtaken him after his mother’s death would return. He let go with Steve, but now that they didn’t live together, and Steve was taken up with his engagement, he felt obliged to keep up the pretence that things were OK. 

“Mostly things are OK. But there are days when I wake up and I don’t want to get out of bed. I miss my Mom; I miss my job. I’m scared and lonely I guess. And now that I’ve known what it’s like when you’re so low you can’t function, I’m even more scared that it’s going to come back.”

“I’ll be here if it does”. Your voice was quiet in the dark. "I'll be here," you wanted to reassure him. You were sitting sideways on the couch now, your legs over Bucky’s lap and your back against the armrest. He was sitting as close to you as possible, both with your arms wrapped around each other. It was so long since you’d had physical contact like this, your skin was tingling, electric shocks running up and down your arms where Bucky was touching you. 

Your head was resting on his shoulder and your eyes were half shut now, as you matched his confession with your own.

“He always used to tell me I was no good. That my art was worthless, that I was worthless. That I should be grateful, honoured, that he was spending time with me – wasting time on me. It’s true too. He could have had anyone. I was just a fat, ugly, nobody. And then when he… gave me scars, well who would want me after that?”

Silence fell. You may have both been half-drunk, half-asleep, but you were more open and intimate than you had allowed yourselves for a long time. Bucky gently lifted your chin with his hand and whispered ‘I would’ against your mouth as his lips brushed against yours, his eyes meeting yours in the faint light, checking if you were OK with this. You closed your eyes as you pressed back against his mouth, your lips parting slightly. Your hand slid up from your lap to the back of his neck, feeling the warmth of his skin and the softness of his hair, as his hand slipped around your waist. Your kiss deepened and you heard a soft moan from Bucky as your fingers tugged gently on his hair.

You kissed slowly and deeply, the alcohol intoxication matched by the drunken sensation of each other’s skin. There was no urgency, but your breathing was raw. Bucky slid you slowly onto his lap, breaking off contact to meet your eyes questioningly. You nodded your permission, turning to face him and sliding your leg across to straddle his lap. You were both breathing harder now, shuddering breaths, as you kissed again. Bucky’s hands were in the small of your back now, pulling you closer as your hands moved to his waist, sliding under his shirt to feel the smooth skin.

The kiss deepened, you both tasting each other’s tongues as you made soft noises of pleasure. You could feel Bucky hard beneath you and no longer knew what you wanted. The alcohol and the pleasure were over-riding any rational thinking, but when you both pulled back to breath and calm down, realisation hit you. What were you thinking? You were damaged, you were worthless. Your brain was muddled with lust and wine. Bucky must have sensed you tensing up and withdrawing; his hands stroked up and down your back gently as if soothing an injured animal.

“We should stop,” Bucky’s voice was throaty and your skin shivered in response. “I want you, but, not when we’re drunk”. He leant his forehead against yours and you fought the urge to kiss him again. “God I want you” he said, his eyes closed. He pulled you against him, your head on his shoulder and wrapped his arms around you, one hand tangled in your hair. You closed your eyes and felt yourself relax against him.

You must have slept, both of you. The sun woke you and you opened your eyes, confused, to find you were lying on the couch, squashed against the back, and half-lying on Bucky’s chest with your leg hooked over his. His breathing was deep and slow, still asleep, so you didn’t move as you tried to piece together how you’d ended up here, and to analyse what had happened in the cold light of day.

You felt sick, and you weren’t sure if that was a hangover, poor sleep or the mental turmoil you’d felt. There was guilt mixed in with fear, mixed in with happiness and lust. Guilt, for burdening Bucky with your story; for burdening him with your body. Fear that he’d kissed you out of pity; fear that he hadn’t. And happiness and lust, emotions that you hadn’t dared feel for so long.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well it's the last chapter, so of COURSE you and Bucky work things out <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some mention of self-harm. Have added to the tags now - I didn't know I was going to put it in before so it wasn't tagged until now. Please don't read if that will be a problem. Sorry x
> 
> Some smut too. Not a huge amount but if Bucky smut isn't your thing then WELL GOD HELP YOU SIR/MADAM BECAUSE YOU MUST BE DEAD.
> 
> Ahem. I do like Bucky ;)

No one is healed in a day, and no anxiety is cured with one kiss. That’s a sad fact of life. In fact, sometimes it’s made worse for a while.

You lay in Bucky’s arms, feeling the warmth of his skin against your cheek, hearing his heartbeat and gentle breathing. You lay completely still while your mind replayed the evening. You were startled to remember that you’d won the commission you so desperately wanted, the memory of that success utterly overridden with the memory of Bucky holding you, kissing you, telling you he wanted you.

But then your mind went down old familiar pathways, the negative ones. The ones that said he’d been drunk, he couldn’t want you. The voices that told you that you had no worth and that a beautiful, shining man like Bucky wasn’t interested. The thoughts that raced along, to remind you that he hadn’t slept with you, and that although he’d said it was because you were both drunk, that couldn’t be the reason; of course that was an excuse.

By the time the light in Bucky’s eyes caused him to wake, you had convinced yourself that it was all a big mistake. You heard his breathing change and felt him stir but you didn’t lift your head, afraid to meet his eyes. You were lying so still he must have thought you were still asleep, and you felt his hand gently stroke your hair, then kiss the top of your head before quietly saying your name.

You pretended to wake, sitting up and assuming he wanted to leave but once he was sitting up too, he put his arms around you again and rested his head on your shoulder.

“I am so hungover and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to turn my head again after sleeping on your couch”. You instantly started to apologise but he tickled your side, adding “and it was the best night I’ve had in a very long time”. He nuzzled his head into your neck but you couldn’t bring yourself to respond or to meet his gaze, afraid of what you’d see.

“I’m going to go shower and grab some clothes, and I’ll pick up some breakfast for us. That OK? I’ll come back over?”

He must have noticed you were barely responding, you hoped he’d think you were just hungover or tired. You nodded, your hair hanging over your eyes, something you were grateful for. He nuzzled your neck one more time, then got up and left.

As soon as you’d heard his door shut across the hall, you threw a pillow across the room in fury at yourself. What kind of idiot were you? To think that a man like Bucky could care about you. You’d had years of being told how worthless you were, and that was the truth. Your nails were digging into your palms hard enough to leave white crescents in your skin, and you were glad of the pain.

Brushing away furious tears, you stood under a scalding hot shower, scrubbing furiously at your skin. Dressed, teeth cleaned, and unable to face yourself in the mirror, you made coffee and downed some painkillers for the hangover, and started to tidy the apartment before giving up and slumping down on the couch, staring blankly at the wall in front of you.

You realised that you were digging your nails in again, and turned your hand over to dig the nails into the bonier back of your hand, deliberately causing yourself pain to distract from the whirl in your head. You dragged your nails hard across your hand, leaving red welts of sore skin, a visual reminder to yourself of your stupidity. You repeated the action, almost in a dreamlike state now as you focussed on the marks and shut out the world.

Your focus meant you didn’t hear the knocking at the door for a little while, until Bucky’s voice called your name. You leapt up, startled, and went to open the door. Bucky walked in, a box of food in one hand, his other hand coming up to cup your face as he leaned in to kiss your cheek. Despite yourself, you leant into his kiss, the scratch of his stubble and his clean smell causing a sensory overload.

“I don’t know about you but I’m pretty hungover. I can’t think of anything else I want to do except eat crap and lie on your couch and watch crap movies with you, whadda you say?” He was grinning at you and you wanted to tell him that was the most perfect idea you’d ever heard but the anxiety had taken your words away again and so you just nodded.

Refilling your coffee, and making a cup for Bucky, you both sat down and Bucky started flicking through the movie choices until he’d found one he liked, and to which you nodded your assent.

As he sat back to watch, he reached for your hand, and stroked the back of it with his thumb. You flinched as his touch ran across the fresh grazes, and he looked at you in surprise, then at your hand. His eyes darkened.

“Hey, what’s this? Did you do this? What’s going on, you haven’t even spoken yet this morning!” Your eyes welled up with shame as you tried to pull your sleeves down over your hands, but he kept a tight hold and asked again, “did you do this?” You nodded.

“I… just, I mean, it was just stupid, last night, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have, you don’t have to… I don’t deserve…” You couldn’t get a sentence out at all but your meaning was clear to Bucky. His face hardened, you hadn’t seen him look angry before.

“I can’t believe you would hurt yourself!” he was shouting, exasperated and frustrated, “you think, what, that you shouldn’t have kissed me? Why, for god’s sake?!”

“You’re too good, I’m just…. Nothing. You don’t have to be nice” your voice wasn’t much above a whisper, which made Bucky’s yell seem even louder in contrast.

“I wasn’t being fucking nice! I’m not too fucking good! I wanted to kiss you. Not damn well make you hurt yourself!”

As he shouted, you became aware of how much larger than you he was physically. He was half kneeling up on the couch as he shouted and you couldn’t help flinching back. It wasn’t a conscious belief that he might hurt you, just the fear of a wounded animal, expecting another blow. As soon as he saw the fear in your eyes as your muscles tensed and you pushed yourself backwards, he seemed to deflate.

“Shit, I’m sorry, oh god, sweetheart, I am not going to hurt you.” He didn’t try to touch you, which was a relief but spoke quietly and pulled himself into a smaller, less intimidating size.

“I know, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” Your breath was a little fast and as the adrenaline left you, you felt tearful and low. You apologised again but reached out gingerly for his hand, to see how he would react. You closed your eyes in relief as he gently closed his fingers around yours, carefully avoiding the marred skin on the back.

You huffed out a deep sigh as he slowly moved nearer to you, checking if it was OK to hold you, and then carefully wrapping his arms around you as you slowly relaxed into his embrace.

Neither of you spoke for some time as you let the tension ease, then quietly, Bucky started speaking, his voice close by your ear.

“If you’ll let me, I’m going to show you all the ways he was wrong. Show you you’re not worthless or talentless. Show you you’re beautiful, show you that you deserve to be loved and cared for and have friends. Show you how I feel about you.”

The feel of his voice and his breath on your ear sent ripples and shivers down your body despite yourself. You leant into him more deeply, your arms around his waist, both of you fitting together so closely, and not wanting to separate. You knew you needed to speak, it was your turn.

“I’m scared, that you’re just being kind because you’re a kind person. I… I…” you paused, screwed your eyes tight then braved a look up at his face, willing yourself to get a sentence out. “I like you Bucky, and I can’t make myself believe you like me.” 

He gave you a sad smile, then slowly leant down and brushed his lips against yours, then a little more firmly in response to your involuntary whimper of pleasure.

“I do. You’ve made me feel lighter than I have done in a long time. Let me help heal you, like you’re healing me.” His lips were still close to yours as he spoke, whispering against you, and you closed the gap and kissed him again.

\--  
Two months later

It wasn’t an easy journey, but you were both making progress, helping each other along. When Bucky had his low days and found it hard to get out of bed, to find a reason to, you held him and reassured him that you always would. And when you listened too much to the hate in your head that told you didn’t deserve happiness, Bucky would block it out with his voice that told you that you were beautiful and talented, and loved.

You took things slowly, for your sake. Bucky knew you found it hard some days, to be touched, and you told him about the scars and how you were ashamed of them. There was never any pressure. You spent most days together, and when you met his friends again, they commented jokingly on how you appeared to be joined at the hip, both enjoying the reassurance and comfort – and pleasure – of being in contact. You still felt shy with his friends, who were so loud and confident, and who brought out that side in Bucky, and you could feel the voices telling you that you’d never match up to their liveliness and laughter. Then, when Bucky and Nat had gone out to pick up some food, Steve spoke to you, the laughter gone and a serious look on his face. He was sitting opposite you, but moved over to sit next to you, and carefully picked up your hand, touching just your fingertips.

“When Buck moved over here, I was scared for him. After his depression, god he was so low.” He paused, head down. “He said he was OK, but he wasn’t and I’ve hated not being there for him.” He put his other hand over yours, his hands big enough to conceal your hand, but your body was relaxed enough these days that you didn’t feel any threat. 

“You’ve done what I never could, y’know. You’re healing him. I get the feeling he’s healing you too, but that’s your story to know. But thank you.” He squeezed your hand gently, then smiled at you. “I guess part of me’s a little jealous that I never could do that for him, but I guess I never tried sleeping with him.” His grin broadened as your face went red.

“We haven’t… I mean, not, we, um, not yet…” you blushed deeper.

“Oh, shit! Sorry! I assumed, well, not my business! It’s just the way he talks about you. He’s got it bad.” He winked at you, as Bucky and Nat let themselves back in with the food.

You were quiet for most of that evening, thinking over Steve’s words and feeling warm inside. Bucky sat close to you, arm around you, reassuring himself you were there with hand-holding and kisses and checking you were OK. Nat and Steve included you in their friendship group without a second thought, and you were starting to believe that it wasn’t just because Bucky liked you, but perhaps on your own merits too.

After Steve and Nat had left, Steve winking at you again in a way that made you flush, you started to tidy in a desultory way until you felt Bucky’s arms snake around your waist from behind. You turned in his arms and he pressed a kiss to your nose with a grin.

“I should get going too in a minute.” He was respectful of your anxieties, never once had he put any pressure on you or made you feel he wanted things to be different.

“Don’t go tonight” you murmured against the skin of your neck. “Stay here.” He pulled his head back to meet your eyes and you nodded slightly. “I want you to. Please?”

“You sure? It’s OK to change your mind, any time” Bucky leant forward and gently kissed you, and you ran your hands up his back to grip his neck, pulling him in against you as you slowly kissed him deeper, showing him without your stumbling words, that you were sure.

You stood in the darkening room, kissing and tasting each other for some time. Your knees felt weak with the sensation as Bucky’s tongue slipped around your mouth and his hands stroked up and down your sides. He moved his head to nip at your neck and you moaned as you tilted your head away, giving him access.

“I want you Bucky.” Your voice was breathy and lust-deep. “Please.”

At your word, Bucky put his hands under your thighs and effortlessly lifted you up, carrying you into your bedroom while you wrapped your legs around his waist and your hands in his hair. Gently laying you down on the bed, he hovered over you, arms either side of your face, making you feel utterly surrounded but entirely safe.

“Any time you want to stop, you’re in charge baby. You just say. And I will stop, and it won’t matter.” His voice was also deep and the sound went straight through you. His concern and care, ensuring you felt OK, even while he sounded like that, was unlike anything you’d known.

You wrapped your legs tighter around him and turned your face to one side, lifting your head to gently bite and suck at his arms, the muscles hard as he held himself up off you. He laughed at the sensation and almost fell on you, so you pulled him down, enjoying his weight on you. 

You kissed again, deeper and harder, and you slid your hands up inside his shirt, then impatiently tugged at it, wanting to be able to feel all his skin. He stopped kissing for long enough to pull the shirt over his head and you took the opportunity to roll him onto his back, sitting on top of him and stroking your fingers up and down his chest. 

For all your anxieties, you weren’t a virgin and you knew what you liked, and the sight of Bucky beneath you made you moan as you bent down and kissed his chest, biting his nipple and listening to him whimper. You felt his hands tug at your shirt and felt a moment’s panic. You wanted to feel his hands on you, your skin against his, but you sat up, withdrawing contact, and met his eyes first. Instantly he stopped touching you, showing you that you were in control here.

“Bucky, I have scars.” Your voice was quiet and he could hear the shame you felt as you spoke. “Burn marks. Operation scars. It’s not beautiful. I just wanted to warn you. So you don’t have to look, or touch, it’s OK.”

“Do you want to stop?” he asked you, and you shook your head, then quietly taking a deep breath in, pulled your shirt up and over your head. You heard Bucky breathe in beneath you and were afraid to decide if it was a positive or negative response to the sight of your body.

Bucky gently lay you back down on the bed and kissed you, waiting for you to meet his eyes first. As you looked at him and nodded, you felt him slide his hand down your side, the lightest touch, half way between a tickle and a sensation that made you whimper and writhe. He grinned at your response then slowly moved down your body, placing wet open-mouthed kisses against you all the way down. Your body responded even more, despite your mind worrying about the way your scars must look and feel to him as he moved so close to them.

Bucky looked up at you and grinned. His eyes were dark and his lips were tantalisingly wet, his mouth open as he breathed deeply.

“Stop overthinking baby. I know what you’re doing. You’re thinking about your scars and you’re tensing up. Just close your eyes, and focus on how it feels. I promise that’s all I’m doing.” He grinned again and as you watched, slowly ran his tongue all the way up your body, feeling you shiver and let out a harsh breath as he did so.

“Shut your eyes” he said again, and you did. You trusted Bucky, utterly. You trusted that he didn’t find you worthless or undeserving of his attention. You trusted that he wanted to touch you and make you feel good. You let your body give way to the sensations as he licked and sucked and bit his way around your body, arching your back to let him undo your bra and then arching again as he took your nipple into his mouth and sucked, hearing yourself cry out wordlessly.

You felt his hands go to your waistband, and his voice murmured ‘is this ok?’. You couldn’t speak, hoping that your whimper and the way you bucked your hips up would give him his answer. You didn’t want to open your eyes or talk, keeping yourself wrapped in the pleasure in the dark. Bucky slid your clothes off you and you felt him continue to kiss and bite his way down your legs, touching one leg with his mouth, the other with feather light touches from his hand, switching and moving until you lost track of what he was doing. You were aware you were making soft pants over and over and you needed to touch him. You were about to reach for him, to pull him back up to kiss again, when you felt his fingers slowly slip inside you. Your leg muscles trembled against him and you let out a loud squeal of pleasure, one that made you laugh and you felt Bucky laugh against your skin too. This was how it should be, oh this was right, relaxed and laughing together.

That was the start of the first night. It didn’t matter that you had scars, it didn’t matter that Bucky had to run, stark naked, across the hall for a condom. It didn’t matter that Bucky found that the backs of your knees were ticklish and that you both laughed so much you had to stop everything and hold each other. When you were together, at last, it was perfect.


End file.
